The mass of fat wrinkles got up from his basket and condescended, after showing a wild but suppressed joy at the sight of his master, to be re-introduced to his mistress who expressed due appreciation of his beauty.

“That old dog has been my only confidant about you, Sabine, ever since I came back—­he could tell you how frantic I was, couldn’t you, Binko?”

Binko slobbered his acquiescence and then the tea was brought in; Sabine sat down to pour it out in the very chair she had sat in long ago.  She was taller now, but still her little feet did not reach the ground.

The most ecstatic happiness was permeating them both, and it all seemed like a divine dream to be there together and alone.  They reconstructed every incident of their first meeting in a fond duet—­each supplying a link, and they talked of all their new existence together and what it would mean, and presently Michael drew Sabine toward the chapel where the lights were all lit.

“Darling,” he whispered, “I want to make new vows of love and tenderness to you here, because to-night is our real wedding night—­I want you to forget that other one and blot it right out.”

But Sabine moved very close to him as she clung to his arm, and her whole soul was in her eyes as she answered: 

“I do not want to forget it.  I know very well that I had begun to love you even then.  But, Michael—­do you remember that undecorated window which you told me had been left so probably for you to embellish as an expiatory offering, because rapine and violence were in the blood—­Well, dear love, I think we must put up the most beautiful stained glass together there—­in memory of our little son.  For we are equally to blame for his brief life and death.”

But Michael was too moved to speak and could only clasp her hand.

     THE END